


Avowed

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: M/M, Preincarnation Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A preincarnation AU set in the last days of the Aztec empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avowed

  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
dirty  
---|---  
  
_ **Avowed** _

For [](http://alinewrites.livejournal.com/profile)[**alinewrites**](http://alinewrites.livejournal.com/) . Because one good washup deserves another.

 

_Shortly after midnight, July 2, 1520_

            “Son of a pig.  I will kill you.  I swear it.”

            Francisco Ruiz y Draco’s eyes were a cold blue in the firelight, betrayed no fear.  When his enemy laughed, he clenched his jaw.  The savages would pay for this _Noche Triste_, one way or the other.  He only hoped to live to see it.

            The young man laughed again, but not the laugh of a man victorious over an enemy.  There was something self-deprecating, ironic about it.  “Do you know who I am?” he asked in perfect Spanish.

            “Should I?” asked Francisco.  The man who held him was obvious nobility; he had the long hair, the gold adornments typical of his rank.  The soldier had assumed he had been brought after capture for some sort of sentencing although he did not understand why he had been separated from his companions.  But Francisco did not recognize this man from his time frequenting the courts with Cortez.  In fact, this lord looked even more decadent, more lavishly adorned than the now-dead Moctezuma.

            “I am Tezcatlipoca.”

            Francisco recognized the name of the demon-god.  His captor must be some sort of priest.  “Then I am to be sacrificed,” he said, breathing deep to steady the sudden horror.  He crossed himself.

            But his captor laughed, turned, said something to the four exquisite women surrounding him, who laughed also.  It made Francisco furious, despite (or perhaps because of) his growing awareness of the man’s near-naked beauty in the flickering light.  Their eyes met, sharp steel dropped into, swallowed by bottomless cenotes.  “No.  I am.”

            Francisco blinked.  “I don’t understand.”

            “It is our custom.  A man of noble blood and physical perfection is chosen to become god upon the earth.  For one year he rules, and then he is sacrificed.  So, you see, my fate has already been ordained.”

            “A cruel treatment for a god.”  The Spaniard shuddered.

            But his host smiled brightly, disconcertingly.  “I am a cruel god.  And human flesh can not bear the burden of the divine glory forever.  It sickens, ages, decays.  Thus I pass from house to house, like a flame from candle to candle.”

            There was a sick fascination to this discussion, but the screams of Spanish soldiers still lingered in his ears.  Francisco’s eyes narrowed.  “What have I to do with that?”

            The god shrugged.  “Nothing at all.”

            “I am here for some reason.”

            “I want you.”  When the soldier started, the god further explained.  “For that year, I am allowed anything I want.  Say it, and it is mine.  I wander the streets with my flute, and if something takes my fancy, be it a melon or the son of the most fearsome warrior, I point and it is brought to me.”

            Francisco was starting to understand the appeal of his host’s position.  Still, he did not think trading his life would be worth it, even if the payment was a year of any pleasure, however forbidden, that he could devise.  “A devil’s bargain for a devil-god,” he muttered.

            “If I understand ‘devil’, you may be close to correct,” said the god.  “I am a god of darkness, and of magic.  Yet I am one of the creators of the world.  Also,” he said, reaching out to stroke the Spanish warrior’s red-gold beard, “I can reward those who please me.”  Francisco flinched at the touch.

            The god’s smile did not falter.  “I would prefer it to be pleasurable for you.  But I will have my way.  Your companions are dead.  Please me, and you will live to serve me, at least until the month of Toxcatl, when I will break my flute and free my heart from its prison.”

            “Dead.”  The word was leaden in Francisco’s mouth.  He had seem the carnage around him, a slaughter he knew was, in part, revenge for that idiot de Alvarado’s earlier massacre of the Mexica nobility.  “Cortez escaped.  He will return.  Quetzlcoatl will return.”

            “Nobody believes that Cortez is Quetzlcoatl anymore – if any other than Moctezuma ever did.  But even so, it was I, Tezcatlipoca, who drove my brother Quetzlcoatl from Tollan.  It was my revenge for his disruption of my sacrifice – just as your companions disrupted my sacrifice.”

            “That was _your_ festival?”  De Alvarado’s rationale for the massacre had been a disguised plot for rebellion under the ruse of resumed sacrifices, but Francisco knew as well as any man that he had wanted to claim the rich gold ornaments of the lords he had slain.

            “My ascension.  Nevertheless, the body of my predecessor was recovered, and I ate of his flesh, completing the transition.”

            Francisco’s stomach heaved.  He didn’t honestly know why such a thing would shock him.  These people were savages, savages hated poisonously for their barbarism even by the other local savages.  Cortez would return and kill them all.  His eyes narrowed.  He fixed his hope upon that thought.  He would do what he needed to survive, and when Cortez returned, he would have the head of this arrogant devil.  He forced himself to lower his eyes.  “What would you have of me?”

            His captor smiled.  “First, a bath.  You Europeans stink.”

            The god’s four maidservants stripped him and led him to a large pool lined with tiles of jade.  To his surprise, the water was quite warm.  He wriggled uncomfortably as they washed him, lathered his red-gold hair, ran their hands down his well-muscled arms.  One reached for his crotch, and he swatted her away.  The women tittered.

            “You don’t like them?” the god asked.

            “The lust for woman is a sin.  I keep myself pure, in God’s name.”  Francisco crossed himself.

            “For me, then,” said the young deity with a smile.

            His jaw set, Francisco asked, “Surely you had a name before this heathen act of blasphemy?”

            Francisco’s captor considered for a moment.  “Tometzli.  But that man is no more.  I am eternal.”

            “Do you honestly believe that?  Doesn’t the prospect of your death, a year from now, disturb you?”

            Tometzli-Tezcatlipoca dropped his feathered robe, revealing his naked form, lean and carved by shadows.  “All men die,” he said.  “The manner of death is important.  Will it be a good death, an acceptance into the arms of a god, or a bad death, lost wandering in the shades?  The sacrifice assures me of eternal glory.”

            Francisco shook his head.  It reminded him of the stories of martyrs, read to him when he was a child.  He thought it was foolishness then, and his opinion had not changed.

            The god stepped into the bath.  His cock was erect; Francisco felt his heart leap into his mouth.  He averted his eyes.

            Tometzli laughed.  “No need for modesty.”  Francisco scowled, getting more an more annoyed with the god’s laughter.  He was not a man to be mocked.  He would see to that.

            As if understanding, the young god nodded gravely.  “Indeed.  Show me what makes you a Conquistador,” he said, and Francisco was not certain whether he was being taunted.  Tometzli leaned back against the side of the pool, spreading his legs, his erection bobbing on the surface of the water.  Francisco felt hot desire well up within him; as he had done so many times before, he beat it back down.  The truth was that lust for women was not a sin which led his soul into much peril.  He had other lusts which put his soul at even more risk – and his body, too.  Fucking a senorita was likely to get you in trouble with her father – not the Inquisition.

            The women seemed to ignore the lewd behavior of their deity.  Francisco wondered whether such an obscene display was yet another common atrocity amongst these people, or whether they were trained to politely ignore the whims of the god, who could demand anything, no matter how outrageous.  Well, if he honestly believed that he had to die, that he was allowed to do anything he wanted for a year without sin…his eyes, as if of their own accord, returned to the young man’s loins.

            One of the maidens handed a goblet to the god.  He drank and handed it to Francisco.  The Spaniard sniffed it.

            “Drink.  It’s pleasant.”  The statement was half offer, half command.  Francisco put it to his lips.  It had a mild, fruity taste, but he could detect alcohol, probably a strong drink that was masked by the fruit.  The aftertaste was slightly bitter.

            Tometzli spread himself wider, stroked himself lazily.  The women, Francisco noted, had retreated to another part of the compound, and seemed to be busily preparing something to eat.  He tried to focus on their activity, ignoring the soft moan from the man in front of him.  He failed.

            “Why me?” he asked.

            Tometzli shrugged.  “Why anyone?  Who can explain desire?”  He rolled over in the water, leaning against his elbows, spread legs floating behind him.  He had the most beautiful buttocks that Francisco had ever seen.  The soldier knew it was an invitation and was shocked; he had expected to be the one violated.  The man’s depravity knew no bounds.

            But it made it harder, so much harder.  He could let himself be taken, closing his eyes and praying for forgiveness, praying that his God understood the sin was necessary to save his own life.  But how could he take the heathen and remain stainless?  How could he deny that his own obscene lusts made it possible?

            And then something strange happened.  The water seemed to churn, and the bronzed skin of the god turned black, seemed covered with scales.  And then he was alabaster and bearded, like an Englishman from across the channel.  Time turned perpendicular; Tometzli was three things at once.  “You drugged me.”

            “We shared the sacred drink,” his host explained.  “It lets me experience my own divinity directly.”

            “A demonic delusion.”  Francisco tried to cross himself, found his hands would not move.  His own cock was rock hard and aching.

            “Take me.  Now.”  It was most definitely a command.  A heat welled up in the soles of his feet, rose up his spine, setting groin and heart on fire and head spinning.  It was the fire he had pushed down, tamped out his whole life, irresistible now.  He roared with desire, lunged, took what was offered, surprised at how smooth, how easy it was (it was only later he was to learn that Tometzli had prepared himself, later when he would watch his captor spread his beautiful buttocks wide and anoint himself with herbed creams).  He had been with women before; he had found it vaguely disgusting.  This was different, so hot and tight.  He thrust again and again, like a maddened bull.  “More,” Tometzli gasped.  “Spare me nothing.”

            Francisco was strong, and his hands bruised the flesh he grasped.  Tometzli made no complaint, spreading wider, thrusting back to meet the slapping of the Spaniard’s thighs.  His body trembled and he cried out.  Francisco knew he had forced him to his climax, and was drunk with the power of it.  He had made a living god come.  He could conquer the world.  He would, someday.

_May 29, 1521_

            Francisco blinked back the tears.  He did not see the battle raging around him, and for their part, the warriors avoided him.  The Mexica knew he was protected by the god, the Spaniards knew he was one of them.  But the god lay dying in his arms, pierced by Spanish shot.

            “A warrior’s death,” said Tometzli, in a voice of infinite disappointment, “not a god’s.”  He looked deep into Francisco’s eyes.  “Nor is my heart  free.”

            “They will die for this, I swear,” Francisco whispered under his breath.

            “You swore to kill me, too.  Remember?”  Francisco blanched.  But Tometzli smiled his infuriating smile and said, “A god’s death.  And our revenge upon the Spaniards.  Promise.”

            It was nonsense to the aggrieved soldier; he knew only the words from his mouth would please the man who had been the only source of pleasure in his life, his god, his slave, his love.  He had scarce uttered them before a stray shot felled him, pitched over dead atop the dying body of his lover.  And he did not remember them until fifty-seven years later, when a short conversation – about half a quarter of an hour – recalled him to the fulfillment of that promise.

           


End file.
